


Buaidh agus Bás

by Bespectacled_Panda



Category: PBG Hardcore
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, British-style Baronage, I did so much research & I still think all of this is probably horribly inaccurate, M/M, Middle Ages, Nobility, Royalty, can you believe viscount isn't pronounced viss-count, don't read this if you're a history buff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bespectacled_Panda/pseuds/Bespectacled_Panda
Summary: “Do you have a name?”Dean realizes as soon as the words slip from his mouth that they were much too forward. But if the stranger is surprised or offended by Dean’s boldness, he doesn’t show it.“…Call me McJones,” he answers in a murmur.---Or, Dean attends a royal ball.
Relationships: Dean Elazab/Stewart Hargrave
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	Buaidh agus Bás

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello, I'm back with another thing! This has been in the works for much longer than it should've been, but things kept coming up that prevented me from working on it, and now I feel like I'm kinda starting to not like it, so I had better quick finish editing & finally post it to get it off my plate!
> 
> Once again, I’ll offer the big, fat disclaimer that always accompanies Hardcore fics: This is fiction in its entirety. This story is not real, and I’m not trying to pass it off as real. I do not intend any disrespect whatsoever to the real-life Misters Dean Elazab or Stewart Hargrave. Additionally, if you yourself have ever been affiliated with Hardcore, _**OR PERSONALLY KNOW ANYONE WHO HAS BEEN AFFILIATED WITH HARDCORE,**_ in any way, please X out of the tab and forget you ever saw this. As always, I also don’t mean any disrespect to McJones’s and Dean’s respective significant others. (mama mia) Thank you for understanding.
> 
> As for content warnings, there’s a couple of references to sex in a general sense in this. They’re pretty vague & euphemistic & generally sfw, though, and they make sense in context. Just be careful, take care of yourself. There’s also a little bit of other stuff I can’t say without severely spoiling the plot, but just bear in mind that I marked this as “chose not to use archive warnings” for a reason. 
> 
> And that's all, I think! Please enjoy the story, & I do thank you for clicking on this at all :)

The ballroom is bright.

Bright. Glowing. Shining. Lit up by elaborate chandeliers suspended from twisting metal chains, each holding dozens upon dozens of flickering candles. Outlined with massive, ornate columns stretching up to the high ceiling, which is painted with an intricate scene of angels and gods a-mingle. The stone floor is as smooth and gleaming as if it were brand new, each tile carved and cut and set with almost impossible precision. And everything, absolutely everything from the ceiling to the columns to the walls, is accented with brilliant gold and white, the candlelight reflecting off the polished surfaces from every direction, filling the room with a warm, inviting, thrilling sort of radiance.

Dean has never seen anything quite like it before.

He is standing to one end of the ballroom, beside the grand, winding staircase to the second floor and beyond. Just standing, taking it all in from afar. Throughout the entire room, what must be hundreds of lords and ladies socialize and chat with each other in a formless flow of sound. They are dressed in their fanciest clothing, the men in their waistcoats and tunics, and the women in their bodices and flowing skirts. The lavish decoration and embellishments ornamenting their garments betray their aristocracy; you could paint the entire ballroom blue with of all their blood combined.

But, of course, nothing is ever so simple. There is something else there too, rippling among them. Another level, another underlying dynamic. Something beyond the simple, face-value conversations the nobles are so engrossed in. Something that lies unseen but yet that is still felt as strongly and sharply as if it were right there before their eyes.

The political ties. The political ties that stretch and twist between each and every one of them, unfailingly. Alliances and grudges, goodwill and resentment, threats and favors, agreements and disputes—all of it coiled up in an invisible knot of twine so thick and complex it would take a person his entire lifetime to even _begin_ undoing it. And, at the very center of it all, stands one man and one man alone, the true focal point to which every single piece of twine ultimately leads back to if one were to follow it to its source:

Lord Jeffrey Fabre, the second earl of Azmarin.

Dean knows quite well that an earl does not host a royal ball simply for the fun of it. An earl does not invite every member of the nobility in his entire earldom—and many from the surrounding lands as well—simply because he wishes to spend an evening making merry with them. No, if someone with as much power as he calls for such an extravagant gathering, his ulterior motive is as clear and plain as day: Diplomacy. The affairs of the state. Forging bonds where they did not exist before. And cutting off those that have failed to be as advantageous as they once appeared.

All evening, Lord Fabre has been making the rounds. Or, more accurately, the rounds have been making their way to him. Since the very moment the castle gates opened to allow the guests inside, he has been wrapped up in conversation with noble after noble. Dean has never been in close enough proximity to him to overhear what the particular topics of discussion were, but he can imagine quite well—trade agreements, partnerships, military concerns, politics, the like. The guests attended this ball for much the same reasons as the Earl hosted it, and each and every one of them craves to be lent the Earl’s ear, even for just a few minutes’ time.

Dean supposes that’s one thing has in common with everyone else here. He too is waiting, poised, for the chance to speak with the Earl of Azmarin alone.

Flicking away a stray hair that had caught on his jacket at some point in the evening, Dean studies Lord Fabre from his place next to the staircase. Fabre is engaged in rapid dialogue with several other nobles—barons, Dean suspects. Even if one was somehow unable to recognize Fabre’s face, a person could easily discern that he is by far the highest-ranking member of nobility here simply by stealing just a single glance at him. His clothing is decorated, elaborate, layered in a way only that of a true elite can be. He wears a linen shirt and a tunic along with hose. His hands are concealed within pure white gloves with golden embroidery, and his boots are covered with what looks to be genuine silk. A velvet pointed cap sits atop his head, concealing the upper half of his face in shadow, and he reaches up and adjusts it every so often with graceful fingers as he speaks. He has a mantle and a loose-hanging cloak, fastened across his chest with a glittering brooch and trailing along on the floor behind him. And, finally, most prominent of all, he wears a beautiful surcoat embroidered with the Fabre coat of arms. That familiar family crest is formed of serpentine lions flanking a patterned shield, and just above them sits an unfurled scroll adorned with the family’s motto: _Buaidh nó bás_ , it reads. _Victory or death._

Fabre is the picture of nobility, of wealth and power and class. And his mannerisms, too, only highlight his status even further. He is stately. Dignified. Even as he smiles, even as laughs, he is controlled. He is not rowdy. He is not loud or over-the-top. Not a single trace of emotion slips out without his express permission. His public face is so perfectly crafted to conceal anything he might be feeling. But behind that regal mask he wears, Dean can see it in his eyes that he is calculating. That he is always, without fail, thinking three steps ahead. Trying to outmaneuver his opponent in a game of political chess that neither of them will admit to playing.

Because an earl does not falter. An earl does not show weakness. He is the rightful Earl of Azmarin, and he will allow nothing, not a single thing, to _ever_ challenge his sovereignty.

However, Dean cannot honestly say that he is envious of Fabre. It is true enough that the higher your social rank, the more power you hold. And the more power you hold, the more sway your voice has. At one extreme are the peasants, who could form an army ten thousand strong but still be crushed like mere ants, while at the other is the king, whose single self is worth all in the entire kingdom. And if you desire any amount of control over anything at all, you had best hope that you were born closer to a king than a peasant.

But at the same time, the more power you hold, the more eyes watch you. The more voices whisper about you. The greater of a target is painted on your back. And the more chance there is that someone will someday decide to take aim at that target. And Dean thinks he would much prefer to die powerless and unknown but having still retained his safety and privacy until his very last breath.

Slowly, Dean begins to notice that his legs are aching from standing so stiffly for so long. After a moment, he lets his posture slip a little, shifting his weight to one side and slouching forward nearly imperceptibly. He cannot afford to relax too much, but this should be an acceptable compromise; no one nearby is paying him any attention right now. As he feels much-needed relief slide through the stressed muscles of his lower back and legs, he takes another look around the ballroom.

One thing is for certain: Lord Fabre knows how to host an excellent ball. The castle is so tidy and immaculate it looks as if it was cleaned mere minutes ago. The warmth and light of the candles overhead banishes away the cold, unfeeling darkness falling just beyond the windows. The minstrels and bards and troubadours in the corner of the room have perpetuated a steady flow of music ever since they first took up their instruments. Everything—everything from the guests to the furniture to the castle grounds to the Earl himself—is draped with such grandeur and opulence that it seems to sing with it.

And, just before this, there was the feast. A grand feast, just as grand as the gold-trimmed, candlelit ballroom. Course upon course upon course of the finest foods in all the land presented on sparkling platters carried by obedient servants. A vaulted dining room with the longest table Dean had ever seen in his life, with Fabre positioned in an ornate chair at the head and the guests arranged all down the sides. Dean himself was seated towards the end of the table next to a man of the gentry called _something_ Narvaez—a gentleman, the youngest son of a baronet. They kept up amicable conversation throughout the feast, but Dean was only halfway paying attention, to be frank. He was more focused on the meal itself, on making sure he ate and drank at the right times, used the proper silverware for the proper dishes, and made appropriate comments on the tenderness and flavor of the food. Every movement of his hands, his eyes, his face, his body was—and still is, even now—carefully crafted in order to blend in as much as possible.

He is just another noble. Another guest attending the Earl’s evening ball. Nothing particular, nothing peculiar. Nothing of note whatsoever.

Dean draws in a slight, delicate inhale through the corner of his mouth. All around him, the sound of music wafts through the air. The bard, warbling about love lost and found again, and the minstrels plucking their lutes in time to his voice. In the middle of the ballroom, a handful of nobles are turning the _basse danse_ with expert precision and elegance.

“Pardon me, sir.”

The voice comes all at once. And Dean turns to find, standing there quite suddenly beside him, a very handsome stranger.

Dean quickly sizes the man up with a look. He is shorter than Dean by several inches, with a triangular face; short, tawny hair; downturned hazel-green eyes behind round glasses; and a slight frown hanging on his lips. He is dressed no different than the rest of the nobles in this room, but somehow, he immediately seems to stand out to Dean, as if there is something about him shining a little bit brighter and bolder than anything or anyone else here.

“Good evening,” Dean replies after a pause, but the greeting doesn't come out with quite the even inflection he wants.

The stranger does not seem to notice, though. “Do you happen know where I might find one Lady Lucah?” he continues in a somewhat clipped tone. “I have an important matter to bring to her attention, but, unfortunately, I have not had much luck in tracking her down thus far.”

 _Lucah._ “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that name.”

“She is the gentlewoman in the green gown with the long, orange hair,” the stranger clarifies, and, squinting, he twists to rapidly scan the crowd of guests filling the ballroom. Truth be told, Dean _can_ vaguely recall seeing someone who matches that description, but he has absolutely no idea where she might be now.

“I don’t believe I can help you, I’m sorry.”

The stranger frowns at the throng of guests for a few seconds more before turning back to Dean with a slight shake of his head. “Ah, well, no matter. I apologize for the trouble.”

“That’s quite alright.”

“I imagine there’s no point in actually going searching for her in this madness, then.” The stranger sighs, rubbing a finger absently over his neatly-trimmed mustache. Then, his eyes flick up to Dean’s. “I must say, you have the right idea here, positioning yourself out of the way of the commotion. If you do not mind, I suppose I might join you.”

“Not at all,” Dean says, graciously moving aside to offer him more space. The stranger takes a few steps closer, facing out to the rest of the ballroom. Silence falls between them, but it’s not a heavy silence. Rather, it is the quiet of two people mutually acknowledging each other’s existences. And, oh, is Dean very, _very_ aware of the fact that he is no longer by himself.

Dean surreptitiously peeks at the stranger out of the corner of his vision. The candlelight is glinting off the stranger’s glasses, obscuring his narrowed eyes almost completely. His chin is tipped down slightly, his eyebrows halfway lowered. He seems almost meditative, deep in thought, his shoulders rising and falling minutely with each gentle breath.

“Do you have a name?”

Dean realizes as soon as the words slip from his mouth that they were much too forward. But if the stranger is surprised or offended by Dean’s boldness, he doesn’t show it.

“…Call me McJones,” he answers in a murmur.

McJones.

Dean rolls it over in his mind a handful of times, almost mouthing it to himself. McJones. …McJones _what?_ Or, more accurately _what_ McJones? That sounds more like a surname to Dean— _son of Jones_ , the Irish way. Odd of him to introduce himself in that manner. Dean wonders what this mysterious noble is playing at. But this time, he has enough sense not to press.

“You know, when you ask someone his name, the polite thing to do is to offer yours as well.”

Dean jolts out of his thoughts. The stranger— _McJones_ —is regarding him again, but now the corner of his mouth is curved up into a faint, expectant smirk.

“Uh—oh, yes, of course, I—I’m sorry,” Dean stammers, sliding a nervous hand over the crown of his head. “I—” he coughs, “—my name is Dean. Elazab. Dean Elazab.”

McJones nods faintly, his smirk softening into a proper smile—albeit a small one. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir Elazab.”

“And you. Sir McJones.”

Across the ballroom, the Earl of Azmarin has broken off conversation with the barons and is now maneuvering over to speak with someone else—this time, someone whom Dean recognizes as the Lord Kramer, the Earl of Dalelry. He is the only person in this castle whose clothing even comes close to matching the lavishness of Fabre’s—but even he too must dress slightly humbler to show understanding that he is merely a guest in another’s domain. As Dean watches, Fabre reaches out and touches Kramer’s shoulder to catch his attention. And when Kramer turns, Fabre lowers his head and says something rapid and very clearly whispered, to which Kramer offers a brief, sharp nod.

Hm.

“So,” McJones speaks suddenly, breaking the silence between them once more, “how like you this ball, Sir Elazab?”

“It’s lovely. Beautiful. Lord Fabre has truly outdone himself,” Dean answers in a light, airy voice. He’s parroting exactly the opinions he heard from Narvaez earlier during the feast. And they accomplish precisely what he intends them to, because McJones hums in understanding.

“Yes, it is alright, I suppose,” he says with another glance around the room.

“It’s _alright_ , you _suppose?_ ” In his surprise, Dean breaks from his carefully-planned script, and he turns, raising his eyebrows. “My word. Who do you keep the company of that you’re attending balls more lavish than this?”

“No, no, you misunderstand; it is not that I am _unimpressed_. It’s only that I’m not…”

McJones glances away, and his mouth twists in a manner that strikes Dean as oddly humorous.

“…I’m not really the type. It isn’t…” He shrugs almost desperately, like he’s struggling to properly translate his thoughts into words. “Parties, galas—they don’t entice me, really. This ballroom is gorgeous, and dinner was marvelous, but…really, it’s just a lot of talk. A lot of…” He trails off, waving his hand to dismiss the thought. “Ah, I am sure you understand.”

Dean understands much better than McJones thinks. “Then why attend this ball at all?” he returns.

“Well—” McJones gives a breathy chuckle, looking up at Dean from beneath the top rims of his eyelids. “We all have our obligations and our reasons for everything, I believe.”

“…That we do.”

Interesting. Very, very interesting.

The inside of Dean’s chest burns, smolders with sharp curiosity. He studies McJones, waiting to see if he is going to offer any sort of follow-up or explanation, some sort of hint as to what he could possibly be alluding to with that observation. But no, McJones has simply gone back to peacefully gazing out at the rest of the ballroom, making clear the fact that he has nothing more to say. But before Dean can even begin attempting to parse through McJones’s remark by himself, there comes a sudden shout:

“Stewart!”

Dean’s gaze darts over in time to see a startingly tall man with sideswept brown hair slip out from behind a nearby column and trot right up to McJones.

“I’ve been looking for you!” he says, his mouth crooked into a slight grin. “I thought perhaps you left!”

McJones squints up at the man. “Why, pray tell, would I leave?”

“I don’t know.”

The man shrugs. His shoulders are thin, bony. All of him is thin, really. He looks like a twig with hands and feet. Like a particularly strong breeze would snap him right in half.

“Well, here I am. What do you want?” McJones asks, his voice twisted marginally with annoyance. The way they’re both speaking to each other, the way they’re both looking at each other, immediately indicates to Dean that they are on _very_ familiar terms. No need for any sort of politeness or formality between them.

Dean takes a courteous step back so as to not intrude on their talk, but his stare stays firmly locked on the two of them, trying to gauge their relationship. Something about the tall man’s face seems strikingly familiar, but it doesn’t quite register with Dean. He’s quite good-looking. Sharp green eyes, sloping noise, goatee. Pretty pink lips bearing a lopsided smile that reveals fang-like canine teeth. Dressed in an elegant surcoat with a mantle and a thin, golden belt looped ‘round his narrow waist. No visible coat of arms, disappointingly; that would answer Dean’s question immediately.

“How am _I_ supposed to know that?” McJones is saying at the moment, both sounding and appearing even more irritated now. “Ask Father when we go home.”

“But Father wanted me to give her the papers tonight! There isn’t another opportunity! She will be departing to visit another kingdom in just a few days’ time!”

“Well, that sounds like you should have asked him before, then.”

“ _Stewart_ …” the tall man mumbles—whines, almost. His mouth tipping down into a frown, he gives a sharp flick of his head to throw his hair out of his eyes. And, in that very instant, the name strikes Dean:

Sir Austin Hargrave.

Oh, of course, _that’s_ who he is. That’s why he seemed so familiar; he’s of the Hargrave family.

Then, suddenly, Dean’s eyes snap downwards to McJones. McJones. McJones, who Sir Austin Hargrave called by an entirely different name— _Stewart_. McJones, who referred to a _Father_ in the same tone of voice that Sir Austin Hargrave did. McJones, who spoke of going _home_ with Sir Austin Hargrave. _Together_.

No, Dean realizes with a jolt. No, they’re—

They’re _both_ of the Hargrave family.

Dean feels the shock come flashing across his face, as abrupt and cold as ice. He quickly scrambles to conceal it, to wipe away any trace of emotion and set his features back in a suitably blank expression before either of them notices. But surprise continues to reverberate around in his chest like the thump of a gong.

He has been in the presence of a Hargrave all this time. All this time, and he had no idea. With mounting fear, he thinks back through everything he has said, everything he has done since McJones first approached him. He was not nearly as refined as he should have been around someone of McJones’s rank. Unknowingly, he has put himself in grave danger.

“Why are you speaking so loudly? I’m right here.”

“Because you aren’t listening to me!”

Austin and McJones are deep in the throes of an argument now, talking over one another in rapid, harsh almost-whispers. They seem to have completely forgotten that Dean is standing a mere few feet away, privy to every hissed word they’re exchanging. Which is just as well; Dean needs some time to pull himself together, to make up for lost ground.

Watching them, he wracks his mind, trying to recall every little bit of information he knows about the Hargrave family. They’re of much higher status than most at this gala. They are not just generic nobles or members of the gentry; their father is a viscount and, moreover, a very wealthy landowner. In fact, Dean would wager that they might even have a personal connection to the Earl of Azmarin. Either way, though, it is not any sort of surprise that their family name was included on the guest list.

Sir Austin Hargrave is the younger son of the Lord Hargrave. His primary duty is to oversee the harvest and distribution of the crops grown on the land his father controls—specifically, the financial aspects along with inter-earldom trade negotiation. Aside from that, he is also a skilled bow huntsman and occasionally dabbles in falconry as well in his spare time. As a person, from what Dean can glean, he is largely well-liked, with no political enemies to speak of. He has an enjoyable personality and a youthful good humor that more than offset his imposingly high status and stature.

But, again, he is only the _younger_ son.

Most conversation about the Viscount’s children has centered around Austin, but Dean can vaguely remember hearing one or two things about his brother. His brother, the second son. The older son. The rightful heir to the family name and the title of _viscount_. But who, instead of busying himself in the affairs of nobility in preparation for his eventual succession, bizarrely chose to withdraw from the public eye and become a scholar instead.

The pieces are all fitting themselves together so neatly in Dean’s mind. What little Dean knows about Sir Stewart Hargrave matches perfectly what McJones said just a few minutes ago, about not particularly enjoying balls such as these _._ And, what’s more, now that Dean’s looking for it, he truly _does_ resemble his brother. It’s slight, but it is definitely, undeniably there. It’s in the shape of his cheeks and face, in his eyes when he blinks them in thought and rolls them heavenward in exasperation. He and Austin are clearly cut from the same cloth. It feels so obvious now, so painfully obvious that Dean cannot fathom how he didn’t realize the instant he saw McJones.

He _should_ have deduced it earlier, really. He _should_ have been paying close enough attention to immediately recognize McJones’s true identity. He is getting careless; that unexpected meeting of McJones has knocked him completely off-balance, stolen his footing away from him without a trace. He is supposed to be in control of this situation at all times. He is supposed to be aware of everything that is going on around him. And he needs to get his wits about him _now_ , or else all will be for naught.

Then, abruptly, Austin and McJones’s bickering cuts off, and McJones turns back to Dean.

“My apologies, Sir Elazab,” he says in a quite pointed manner that makes it clear he is more addressing his brother than Dean. He lifts an arm in a vague, somewhat stiff gesture. “This is my younger brother, Austin.”

Austin spins as well, seeming to have only just noticed Dean standing there for the very first time. “Ah, please do excuse me!” he blurts, his shoulders rising and his mouth crinkling. “I am very sorry for interrupting!”

“Think nothing of it; we weren’t engaged in any important discussion,” Dean replies breezily.

“Oh, well, it’s a pleasure to meet you regardless!” Austin chirps, and he gracefully holds out a hand. “I am The Honorable Austin Hargrave, son of The Right Honorable The Viscount Hargrave!”

Typical nobles. Always throwing around their rank whenever they can. This is another one of the reasons why Dean didn’t immediately place McJones as high nobility: He didn’t choke on his own tongue at the first opportunity to let Dean know of his position in the aristocracy.

But Dean grips Austin’s hand with a smile and answers in kind all the same: “Dean Elazab, esquire, eldest son of the eldest son of Sir Ali Elazab.”

It is one of those titles that doesn’t really mean much of anything. Dean is sure that half of the people in this very room could plausibly claim to be esquires just the same. That is exactly why it is a very, very safe thing to say; it would take days of combing through poorly-kept historical records to realize that no such knight by the name of Sir Ali Elazab has ever existed.

“What brings you here tonight?” Austin asks, then.

“Business. The usual. Nothing terribly interesting, I am afraid.”

Austin smiles. He has quite a disarming smile, just the same as his brother. That charm of his will serve him well in his future endeavors, no doubt. “Well, very good. I hope all goes smoothly for you.”

“Thank you kindly,” Dean replies with a polite dip of his head. “I wish the same for you.”

And he hopes that will be the end of it; he is really not interested in—or, frankly, prepared for—any further questioning. But, quite unfortunately, Austin lingers around to perpetuate the conversation, inquiring on such things as how he and McJones met and in which particular region of the earldom he lives. And Dean nods thoughtfully to every question, disguising his mounting distress, and tries his very best to provide the most satisfactory answers he can spin together.

Truthfully, Dean supposes somewhere in the back of his mind, he cannot dislike Sir Austin Hargrave _too_ much, even as overly-friendly as he is. Austin is far more authentic than the vast majority of the people in this room. There’s a faint yet undeniable twinkle in his eye that says his heart never entirely grew up, that he never became quite as prim and proper and reserved as Dean is sure he was taught to. And Dean has to admit that, at the very least, he can respect that.

Their talk continues on for a while longer. Thankfully, things soon enough drift away from matters of Dean’s personal life and over towards safer topics of discussion, such as the King’s latest edict. Austin believes it will be entirely beneficial for the kingdom, while McJones believes that not enough forethought was put into it before it was issued and that it will have unfortunate consequences. Dean, of course, has some opinions of his own on this particular edict, but he chooses to just stay silent and observe the brothers’ back-and-forth instead. And as he listens, he finds his shock and anxiety slowly giving way to something akin to delight.

Because, well, perhaps he was remiss. Perhaps he ought to have been more careful with his words and behavior. Perhaps he forgot all about the reason why he is at this ball in the first place. But it would be downright _foolish_ of him to not realize what a golden opportunity this is. Lady Fate has supplied him with the perfect cover: No one, not even the Earl of Azmarin himself, could possibly be suspicious of someone who keeps the company of the Hargrave sons. If Dean allows himself be seen socializing with such elite nobility, surely their status will reflect on him as well. He can cloak himself in their air of gentility. So, a simple change of plans—Dean will be sticking to the side of the two Hargraves for as long as he can.

And, if he’s being truly honest with himself, he doesn’t exactly mind the thought of spending the rest of the evening looking at McJones’s pretty face.

Austin and McJones have trailed off into silence for the time being. Austin is swaying back and forth on his heels just slightly, almost but not quite rocking to the tune of the minstrels’ music. Then, an expression crosses McJones that says he has just had a sudden realization.

“Austin,” he says brusquely, looking up. “Tell me, how much did you have to drink over dinner?”

Austin’s mouth purses sharply, so telling that Dean has to physically suppress a laugh. “Not—not too much. I partook in, ah, a few glasses, I’d say,” Austin mumbles.

“ _Austin_.”

“ _Stewart_ ,” Austin returns, matching McJones’s tone and pitch in a vaguely mocking impression. “I—Lord Fabre offered! I could not possibly say no to his face!” He turns halfway away, tucking his chin into his chest. “And plus,” he adds in somehow even more of a mutter, “the wine was delicious, so…”

No one could begrudge him that. Dean quite agrees with him; the wine Lord Fabre served was just as splendid as everything else he has to offer. It arrived in gleaming, gold-plated goblets, the liquid inside a brilliant, dark rubied color, and each sip Dean took sent the rich taste of grapes sweeping across his tongue and teeth. The knowledge of his duty hanging like a weight in the back of his mind was the only thing keeping him from imbibing to utter excess.

McJones sighs heavily, pressing his knuckles to his lips and shaking his head. “Did you at least have the opportunity to speak with Lord Fabre yet?” he says at last, sounding extremely exhausted, as if this sort of situation is something he deals with on the regular. Dean has only been acquainted with Austin Hargrave for all of thirty minutes, but he would readily believe that.

“Yes, I already did! Can’t you have at least a _little_ faith in me?” Austin cries, his voice rising a step or three. “I spoke at length with him just after dinner! He likes the idea, and he’ll be sending a letter by courier to Father soon to discuss it in depth!”

“Good.” McJones sighs once more. “At least you can take care of something.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you want to take care of it instead.” Austin sticks his nose in the air, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I’m half-convinced that Father will just skip right over you and make _me_ the family heir instead.”

“Good riddance.”

The three of them stand there, unspeaking again for a long moment. Dean sees Austin’s head lift and swivel around, something off at the far end of the ballroom apparently snagging his attention. Finally, he snaps back up to his full height, offering another one of those charming, boyish smiles.

“Well, I suppose I will take my leave, then. I’ll let you and your friend be, Stewart,” he says. “It was lovely to meet you, Sir Elazab.”

“Yes, you too,” Dean replies with a gentle nod.

“Hie, go on, get. Get thee out of here, sirrah,” McJones cuts in, offering up a teasing smile of his own that crinkles his eyelids at the corners. Any lingering vexation towards his brother has been washed away as if it was never even there, completely replaced with a deep, familial sort of affection shining upon him.

“ _Sirrah?_ You read too many books, Stewart.” Austin lifts his hands almost defensively. “You should try, say, having _fun_ sometime. It would do you good, methinks.”

“What does it look like I’m doing here tonight?” McJones retorts, but Austin is already striding away. From behind, he looks confident, formidable, the very picture of his father’s rank. Nothing like the cheery, lighthearted young man Dean was just speaking with. And, in a few, long steps, he slips into a cluster of guests and vanishes from sight.

After a pause, Dean turns back to look at McJones. McJones is rubbing his eyes beneath the rims of his glasses, his face now bearing an expression of tired resignation. “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” he says dryly. “I love him very much, but sometimes I suspect that he was born lacking a brain.”

Dean notes that McJones does not seem even the slightest bit concerned that his true identity as a Hargrave has been revealed. Perhaps Dean was wrong about him, and he _wasn’t_ intentionally trying to remain anonymous at all. But that just makes it even odder that he first introduced himself under a mononymous nickname. Caught up in these tangential thoughts, it takes Dean a handful of seconds to process what McJones has just said.

“I—oh,” he stutters a little bit rapidly, running his hand over the back of his neck. “No, there’s no need for any apology. I wasn’t bothered at all. Your brother seems kind, and I enjoyed speaking with him.”

It isn’t even that much of a lie. Once the winds of the conversation turned such that Dean was no longer on the defense, he found that he quite liked hearing what Austin had to say. The Hargrave charm, he thinks it must have been.

McJones nods slightly, almost absently. “He is very kind, yes. Albeit, he is utterly incorrigible—he can be a real pain in my ass, let me assure you—but he has a good heart underneath.”

Dean chuckles airily at that, but McJones does not do the same. He just shakes his head slowly, pressing his palm against his cheek.

“…Honestly,” he murmurs after a long pause, “I really worry about him sometimes.”

And there is something in the soft, almost downtrodden, tone of his voice that snags tight hold of Dean. “How do you mean?” he asks.

McJones’s forehead wrinkles a slight bit, as if the thought burst out of him only half-formed, and he isn’t quite sure of its true meaning either.

“I just—Austin can be so naïve at times,” he continues rather measuredly, feeling his way through each word that leaves his throat. “He is so trusting and caring and—and _emotional_. And I love all of those traits in him, truly, but—” and McJones lets out a sharp breath through his nose, “—I am not so sure if they suit a noble.”

Dean nods pensively. “Ah. I see.”

And then, McJones turns towards Dean. He takes a half-step closer, lifting his chin to stare up at Dean with an abrupt sort of gravity. “Sir Elazab,” he says, his eyes narrowing, darkening, “let us do away with this flimsy farce, shall we? I think you and I both know full well the nature of what is truly going here at this ball. This is not about friendship or revelry or—or what have you.” He holds out his arm towards the whole of the ballroom in a single, sweeping movement. “Look at them. This is one hundred-some people all trying to best each other. And many of them will do whatever it takes to come out the victor.”

It is the very same thing Dean was ruminating on earlier—has been ruminating on for the entire evening, in fact, like the gears of a clock revolving endlessly in a small corner of his skull. But hearing it spoken aloud startles him, strikes him right in spot between either side of his ribcage.

This McJones is quite possible the most enigmatic noble Dean has ever encountered. The elite are never supposed to be so frank. And they _especially_ are never supposed to directly acknowledge the ulterior motives that each and every one of them carry. They are simply supposed to wear the stony masks of their public faces at all times, pretending like they aren’t plotting how to twist every single situation they find themselves in to their utmost advantage. And the fact that McJones would break such a fundamental rule of courtliness—around someone he is hardly acquainted with, no less—is shocking to say the least.

“…Indeed,” Dean says cautiously after a few seconds, and he makes a small noise of vague agreement in the back of his throat. He is still attempting to tread carefully, although he is starting to get the sense that McJones is not quite the kind of person Dean anticipated him being upon first discovering his identity as a Hargrave.

“Part of me _would_ , honestly, be relieved if our father did name Austin as his successor,” McJones continues, his voice lowering until Dean has to almost strain to make out his exact words. “But another part of me would be so constantly fearful for Austin’s sake. Neither of us is, well, particularly suited for the position of viscount, it seems.” His mouth purses wryly, and with a glance, he looks back out at the rest of the ballroom. “But. We are our father’s sons, so I suppose we have no choice but to accept whatever comes to pass.”

In an instant, the same question from before returns to Dean’s mind, settling on his brain like the graceful landing of a butterfly: If McJones so despises being heir to the Viscount, why is he here? Why would he care enough to step out of his usual role as the private, reclusive son in order to attend tonight’s ball? _We all have our obligations and our reasons for everything_ , is what he told Dean. But if Sir Stewart Hargrave actually cared at all for obligation, he wouldn’t be openly fantasizing about abdicating his status as heir to his younger brother.

Then, an idea occurs to Dean, and the form of it is on his tongue before he even has time to worry it over:

“Forgive me if this is too bold a suggestion, but could you not share the duties of a viscount between the two of you?”

McJones raises a curious eyebrow at Dean. “Hm?”

“Your brother could take care of public matters, while you would keep an eye on things going on beneath the surface. You could avoid the attention and responsibility you seem to so dislike while also preventing Austin from being taken advantage of by cunning nobles who wish only to use him as a pawn.”

“…Oh, I see.” McJones frowns slightly. “I must admit, that very same idea has crossed my mind before. But I…I just am not sure how that would function.” He holds up his hands in a vague gesture that means nothing and everything all at once. “Dual viscounts…would our father even permit it? Would the _Earl_ even permit it? It would be highly atypical, certainly. But perhaps. Perhaps.”

He falls quiet, but the wrinkle in his forehead says that he is still mulling it over. He remains like that for a moment, lost in thought, almost entirely unmoving. And Dean watches him with what is probably a little too much intensity. He almost wishes he had more advice to offer, but these sorts of dilemmas are completely unfamiliar to him. Duty versus feeling. Obligation versus desire. Or, in another sense, family loyalty versus personal interests.

It is an interesting thing to ruminate upon. Dean himself is also an older brother, just as McJones is, but his family lives very different lives than McJones and Austin do. And Dean has honestly never felt any sort of particular protectiveness or desire to shield his younger brother from anything. Whether it is because the two of them are not saddled with the same burdens as the Hargraves or because Dean is simply not a very good older brother, he just trusts that his younger brother can take care of himself.

Then, McJones stiffens rather suddenly, as if he’s just come out of a trance. He presses two fingers over his lips, closing his eyes for a brief flicker before finally looking to Dean again. “My apologies,” he says with a quick shake of his head. “I am sure you have spent all evening discussing similar matters. I should not burden you with my personal concerns.”

“No, no, that is quite alright. I am more than willing to lend an ear,” Dean responds.

“Well, I do appreciate it, sir. But I think I’d rather speak of lighter things for now.”

Truthfully, Dean would very much like that as well. He allows McJones’s words to hang for a few breaths before he speaks up again: “…In that case, there’s something I’d like to, shall I say, _address_.”

“Yes?”

Dean feels the sudden smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, and for once, he doesn’t even attempt to suppress it. “Quite honestly,” he starts, “I take umbrage with the fact that earlier, you scolded me for not telling you _my_ name, when, in fact, you hadn’t even told me your _real_ name in the first place, _Stewart_.”

He points a faux-accusatory finger at McJones to punctuate the sentence. And the slight smile that blooms upon McJones’s face in answer makes something twinge in the center of his chest.

“Touché,” McJones says, giving a huffy exhale that sounds something akin to a laugh. “I did mislead you, didn’t I? How cruel of me. Well, let us start over, then; I vow to do it properly this time.”

He takes a step or two backwards and does a little bit of a wiggle, as if he is setting himself up for something. Then, pasting on an almost comically serious facial expression, he marches right back up to Dean, coming to a dead stop just a foot away.

“A- _hem_. Ah, hello, I did not see you there. What is your name, good sir?” he intones.

Oh, so this is how he’s going to play this, is it? Stewart Hargrave has a sense of humor. Color Dean surprised.

“Good evening, sir, my name is Dean,” he answers without missing a beat, playing along.

McJones’s persona has already started to slip after just a few lines; his cheeks are creased with the grin he’s clearly struggling to hold back. “Well, it is a great pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he presses on. “I’m called Stewart.”

Dean’s name—his _fore_ name—on McJones’s lips for the very first time since they met makes his skin wash over with a strange tingling sensation. After a moment, McJones, having arranged his features back into something that resembles seriousness, sticks out his hand expectantly. But rather than sliding his hand against McJones’s in a proper shake, something suddenly possesses Dean to instead reach out and curl his fingers around McJones’s. And, in a fluid motion, he draws McJones’s hand up almost daintily.

McJones’s eyebrows rise right along with his hand. “…What’s this, here?” he says, his act peeling away again, a slight chuckle plain in his voice. “Do you think me a lady? Are you planning to kiss my knuckles next?”

“Would you like me to?”

Neither of them expects that response.

Whatever else McJones was about to say gets caught halfway out of his mouth. His eyes dip away, and he carefully slips his hand out of Dean’s and draws back. Silence, thick and uncomfortable, settles in the space between them. Dean feels his cheeks begin to burn, and he prays that the red tint that has surely colored his skin isn’t visible.

Why can’t he stop himself from saying such ridiculous things? He feels as if he has been possessed by some imp, some fae that has tricked his tongue into betraying him at every available opportunity. He has tried over and over to reign himself in, but somehow, he is just completely unable to. And he can feel himself losing control of this situation at an ever-increasing rate.

“…Well,” McJones begins suddenly, and even though his voice is hushed, Dean still jumps. His heart pulses—a shot of anxiety at the thought of what McJones might be about to utter. A pointed question, a statement cutting a little too close to the truth. An accusation that Dean isn’t at all who he purports to be.

But all McJones says is, “It _is_ a pleasure to meet you. I...I honestly did not expect to have someone with whom to chat tonight.” He isn’t looking at Dean, not quite. ”I presumed I’d simply be standing around, terribly bored, as I waited for my brother to finish up with his duties and accompany me home. So…”

He trails off, and Dean feels himself judder a little with sheer surprise. Because—it’s astounding. Once again, McJones is willing to overlook his blatant social misstep. For some reason, he is actively letting Dean get away with all of these blunders. In his shock, Dean forgets that he is supposed to reply, and by the time his brain catches up again, it is already too late. So he just remains quiet, shifting slightly in place.

“...It may be just me, but this room is awfully warm.”

McJones is still speaking in a very muted, subdued tone. Dean glances at him to find him absently rubbing his fingers across the side of his jaw.

“No, I sense it too,” Dean affirms to him after a moment. “Those hundreds of candles are serving their purpose, I suppose.”

“Quite impressive considering the temperature outside. It has been unseasonably cold today, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

Oh dear, they’re talking about the weather. It is never a good sign for a conversation when that happens. And perhaps that same thought occurs to both of them at the same time, because neither of them makes any attempt to continue the dialogue, and silence falls once again. Feeling a terrible sense of awkwardness prickling at his chest, Dean presses his lips together forcefully, as if that will prevent anything else imprudent from slipping from his mouth.

A few minutes tick past. The minstrels in the corner change to a different tune, plucking their harps and lutes in a faster rhythm now. It’s a dance song, a couples’ song, and one by one, the nobles start pairing off. Gentlemen offer their hands to ladies, who smile coquettishly and allow themselves to be led into the center of the ballroom. And, with a strike of the downbeat, the dance begins.

It is almost something beautiful to behold. Dean has never seen a true royal dance before, and he quickly finds that he cannot draw his gaze away from it. It is mesmerizing, in a sense. Men spinning with women in rippling dresses. Every couple stepping and turning in perfect unison, as if they are all bound by one lifeforce. The steady beat and flutter of the music, flowing among them and around them, seeming almost to curl its way into their very souls.

And, for the first time since he stepped foot into Lord Fabre’s castle—no, for the first time in perhaps his entire life—Dean feels his heart tug with the true desire to _be_ one of them. To have their elegance and grace, to live the nobility that flows through their veins, at least for a little while. At least until the music changes again.

“This is nice,” he remarks, slowly turning to look at McJones.

“Yes, it is,” comes McJones’s tranquil reply.

After a moment, without thinking better of it, Dean gives a small, inviting lift of his chin. “Care for a dance?”

“Mm, no thank you.”

The expected response, certainly, coming so immediately that Dean doesn’t even have the opportunity to chastise himself for asking this time. But somehow, he still feels a slight twinge of disappointment.

“Not the dancing type? Or are you just giving me the brush-off?”

McJones’s eyes cut over to him. “People would talk.”

It is not exactly an answer to Dean’s question, but regardless, he is right: People _would_ talk. The two of them may be able to remain largely unnoticed at their places here in the corner by the grand staircase, but out there in the middle of the room, they would stick out severely amongst all of the perfect, doll-like ladies and gentlemen. A couple of peasants who had snuck into the castle still dressed in their ragged tunics would blend in better than they would, two men sharing a dance at the Earl of Azmarin’s ball.

Such relationships are, well, _uncommon_ , to say the least. They arise occasionally in the lower class; peasants have larger and more pressing concerns in their lives than such trivial details as the gender of the person who one’s neighbor brings to bed. But true aristocrats never, ever partake in them. Ability to produce an heir is _the_ most important thing to those of royal lineage, far more so than any other aspect of aristocratic life. To them, if you cannot bear children to whom to pass on all of your accomplishments, then everything you have done across your entire lifespan is stripped bare of all its meaning.

…Which means that Dean, in all his oafishness, must have put McJones in a very uncomfortable and very, _very_ unfair position by asking him to dance. Because McJones has far, far more to lose here than Dean does. As atypical as he is for a noble, he is still very much bound by social rules. Once he ascends his father’s position, he will surely be ordered to find a woman of equally high status to take as his wife. And he will then be expected to conceive with her in order to ensure that the Hargrave bloodline lives on in the veins of his offspring.

It is a blatantly obvious truth of the world, and yet, at the same time, this is the first it has actually occurred to Dean. And Dean finds himself wondering how, exactly, McJones feels about it. McJones surely understands the full extent of what is required of him, seeing as he is clearly not naïve to the broader sense of what it means to be an eldest son in this world he inhabits. But he has already spoken so negatively of simply being _heir_ to the Viscount; Dean cannot imagine that he is any more pleased about having his marriage and future already laid out for him by hundreds of years of orthodoxy. And—and perhaps it is simply wishful thinking, simply him not yet being personally familiar enough with McJones—

But Dean just cannot imagine McJones with his arm around the waist of a lady.

The desire to ask McJones directly how he feels about royal expectations for marriage and women in the carnal sense pricks at Dean like the nipping of an insect, making him feel almost a little bit wild with it. But for once, he manages to slam the door shut on his impulsivity. McJones specifically requested to speak of lighter things, and this topic is anything but.

So, at last, he looks to McJones again. And when McJones glances back at him, he lifts a shoulder in a halfway shrug.

“Well, that’s just as well,” he says. “I don’t know how to dance.”

And McJones sputters out with a loud, high-pitched laugh. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, that Dean actually startles a little bit. He stands there, gawking at McJones, who’s hunched over slightly and smiling hard into the back of his hand, his eyes crinkled as he trails off into chuckling mixed with slight gasping for breath. It is, without a doubt, the most emotion Dean has seen from him yet.

And as Dean continues to look at him, and as his mirthful, half-mooned gaze slowly rises to meet Dean’s, Dean senses something shifting between them. The final piece setting perfectly into place, a key sliding into a lock with utter ease and twisting with a satisfying _click_. In the span of no more than a heartbeat, any lingering discomfort surrounding them completely falls away.

And they find themselves just starting to…talk. Talking about anything, about everything. About Lord Fabre’s ball. About how their days have been going thus far. About their interests and pastimes. About their likes and dislikes. McJones even offers a handful of stories from when he and Austin were young, and Dean responds in kind with tales of he and his own younger brother. None of it is off-limits to them.

It is thoroughly engrossing—much more so than any other conversation Dean has engaged in this evening. It’s different, too, from the way he and McJones were conversing before, although Dean cannot quite put his finger on what, exactly, has changed. But whatever the reason, time quickly gets away from them, and they stand together, simply chatting, for what must be at least another hour. McJones is easy company; he has a certain, unexpected wit to him, a hidden side of him that has only started emerging just now. And Dean would like to believe that it is, perhaps, because of _that_ that he finds himself trying to purposefully say things that will make McJones laugh. But when he succeeds, when McJones tips his head back and lets that rapid, wheezy giggle of his burst out of him, Dean cannot deny that he feels something squirm hotly and delightfully in his stomach.

Maybe—most likely—Dean is letting himself slip again. At the very least, he is certainly becoming overly relaxed in McJones’s presence; with every minute that goes by, he can feel himself growing exponentially less concerned about trying to provide the “right” answers to the questions McJones asks. It’s just that, with all that McJones has said and done this evening, Dean doesn’t feel that he needs to pretend quite as much with him. And it feels like McJones is letting his guard down as well. As if he is experiencing the exact same sort of laid-back contentment regarding _Dean_. He seems somehow looser now, more relaxed. More human than noble.

As they press on in their chatter, their voices grow louder, livelier. And so too do they themselves grow closer to each other. It is the natural and mutual gravity of two people engaged in talk, nothing unusual at all. But Dean notices it perhaps a little bit more than he should. He notices the faint scent of soap on McJones, the way his eyes are a slightly different shade of mossy green than his brother’s, how his whole face seems to glow with his every smile. And he also notices that occasionally, no more than once or twice, their hands happen to brush together—by mistake, of course. But even still.

Really, Dean finds himself musing at one point, it is as if the two of them have stepped out of the ballroom altogether and whisked themselves off into their own private world. The minstrels’ music, the voices of the other guests around them—all of it seems to have slipped away into the background. There is only Dean, snickering at something particularly amusing McJones has just said. And at his side, there is only McJones, breaking into a small smirk and giving Dean a pointed look as if he and Dean are sharing some sort of private joke that would be utterly unintelligible to the rest of humanity. And Dean thinks, not with his brain but with the folds of his heart instead, that even if everything else goes awry for him tonight—even if every piece of his plan falls apart in his fingers like the skin of an undercooked pastry—being able to be here with Stewart Hargrave will have made it all worth it regardless.

At this point in their conversation, McJones is several minutes into an anecdote about the time when his younger brother injured himself whilst learning to ride horseback as a child, recounting rather animatedly how Austin fell completely off the horse and split open his forehead on a rock protruding from the ground beneath him.

And then, all at once, they see a head of orange hair go gliding past in a bustle of pale green skirts. Dean doesn’t register it any more than he has registered any other guest at this ball, but beside him, McJones straightens with a sudden jolt.

“Ah, there she is! _Lady Lucah!_ ” he calls out, jerking forward, but the woman, already too far away to hear him, doesn’t slow.

“That is the woman you have been looking for?” Dean says slowly, understanding dawning on him all at once.

“Yes, yes, that’s her.” McJones’s eyes are fixed on the lady as she crosses the ballroom, weaving her way through scattered clusters of nobles with a visibly fierce sense of purpose. “I have been seeking her all evening, but this is the first I have seen in her hours. Lord knows where she has been all this time. I informed her when I first arrived that I wished to speak with her after we dined, but…”

He trails off, and his eyebrows lower. He stands there for a moment, still focused on Lady Lucah growing further and further away. Then, he turns to look back at Dean, his jaw setting slightly.

“Forgive me for my abruptness here, Dean, but I must take my leave now,” he says.

“O—oh.” And Dean feels his heart instantly deflate. After a beat, he manages to reel himself in enough to shake his head marginally, waving his fingers in a movement that conveys far more casualness than he feels. “No, no, that—that is perfectly alright. I understand. You ought to run and stop her before she disappears again.”

He knows full well that really should not be disappointed in the slightest. Just like he, McJones is here on business; of _course_ he has to go hurry to catch up with this Lady Lucah woman now that he has finally located her. After all, she is the one person he has been searching for for the entire evening, possibly even the one and only reason he is at this very ball in the first place. Dean is merely a stranger whom he happened to strike up a conversation with. But something about it feels so jarringly abrupt, and it rubs against Dean in a most unpleasant manner.

“I do apologize for this,” McJones continues, glancing fretfully across the room again. “I much enjoyed talking with you. It was very nice to meet you, and I wish you only good fortune in all your endeavors going forward.”

Dean’s whole body feels strange, as if he has sort of forgotten how to move and talk and just _be_. “I—yes. Yes. The—the same to you, of course.”

McJones has begun to inch backwards now, and he lifts his hand in a brief gesture, almost a wave but not quite.

“Well, then. Adieu.”

And with that, he pivots and begins to stride away. But he only makes it a handful of steps before Dean finds himself overtaken by a strange urge that makes him lurch forward and cry, “Wait, Stewart.”

McJones immediately stops in place, twisting to glance over his shoulder at Dean. He does not offer a verbal reply, but the expectant tilt of his head alone makes Dean nearly forget what he was about to say. He swallows forcefully, his hand absently finding the laces of his shirt and fiddling with them.

“Perhaps I will see you again this evening?” he says after a moment, his voice lifting with the foolish hope he cannot quite conceal.

And McJones hesitates, standing still, looking at Dean with eyes and face upturned. He blinks once, measuredly, and Dean feels a strange tightening sensation in his chest.

“…Perhaps,” McJones affirms after a brief pause. And then, before Dean has the chance to ruminate on what that could mean, he turns again and walks off into the sea of nobles filling the ballroom. Moving on with his evening.

Dean watches him vanish into the throng before lowering his chin to his chest. He slowly slides his fingers across his scalp and into his hair, letting out a long, quiet sigh. He feels almost unsteady, in a way. As if he is a sailor who has just disembarked from his ship after three months at sea, and he has not nearly regained his land legs yet. That comfortable, private world inhabited only by he and McJones has more than dissipated, and it is a very strange sensation indeed to be thrust back into the crowded, noisy, gilded reality of the glowing ballroom.

…Although, he supposes, it is not altogether a bad thing. After all, he too has important things to take care of tonight. Amongst all that distracting talk, he had completely forgotten to keep an eye on the Earl. He begins to scan the room, and a sudden panic grips him when he does not immediately see Fabre. If Fabre is gone, if he has slipped away to some other part of the castle—

But no, Dean’s darting gaze thankfully lands square on the Earl just a few seconds later. He is standing to the side of the room next to the grand wooden entrance door, his hands clasped regally in front of him. Beside him hovers a tall man with short brown hair mostly concealed beneath a flat, brown cap. Sizemore, Dean thinks his name might be, although he cannot recall the man’s exact rank. He is either a viscount or a baron—albeit, it does not particularly matter which. Sizemore and the Earl do not appear to be much engaged in conference; Dean sees their lips move only occasionally, interrupting long stretches of otherwise nothing but silence between them. And yet, even still, neither of them seems to be in any hurry to part from the other. They simply linger there, side by side, observing the many couples still twirling around the ballroom in neat formation.

All the while, Dean keeps his focus, his senses, his awareness trained firmly on the Earl. He averts his eyes every so often so as to not be caught staring, pretending to examine the cuff of his shirt sleeve or fixing his face in an expression that makes him appear deep in thought—and, naturally, not responsible for the direction he might incidentally find himself looking for a lengthy period of time. But even as he does so, his attention remains fastened onto Fabre and only Fabre. Getting distracted at this point in the night, even by the slightest thing, could—no, _would_ —prove absolutely disastrous. He is well aware how fortunate he already has been to not have missed his window of opportunity while he was occupied with talking to McJones.

Briefly, Dean also contemplates changing his position, seeing if he can manage to get any closer to Fabre at all. But after some rumination, he decides against it, as it is unlikely he would be able to find a better vantage point than the one he currently occupies; he is in what is clearly the least crowded and most inconspicuous part of the room. Anywhere else, he would be surrounded and surely disturbed by the constant bustle of other guests dancing and laughing and perhaps even attempting to make conversation with him, if they are gregarious enough. And Dean would bet every penny he has to his name that he has already made acquaintances with the most interesting person at this ball by far, so he would have nothing to gain even entertainment-wise by acquiring a new conversation partner. Closer physical proximity to Fabre is not worth strategically all that he would necessarily have to endure as a consequence.

So he remains where he is. Where he has been for hours upon hours now, really. And, just as he has been doing since the guests first flooded into the ballroom, he waits. He waits. He holds patience like a flower in his heart, stretching its petals and roots out to touch each and every corner of his being. He keeps himself alert, always scanning, calculating, watching. Watching as the Earl glances, sways towards the door with a slight frown, almost as if he is expecting someone. Watching as that Sizemore man leans closer to Fabre, smiling mysteriously and murmuring something that makes Fabre’s face then light up in a hearty chuckle. Watching Fabre’s every single movement, poised for any opening that might reveal itself, no matter how small.

Simply watching.

An innumerable amount of time passes by. Somewhere, distantly, a grandfather clock bongs, but Dean does not pay it any particular mind. It is growing quite late in the evening indeed, but that is no matter; although he would prefer to have his moment of privacy with Fabre before this ball winds to a close, Dean is more than prepared to linger afterwards for as long as he needs. All that matters is that he is able to meet confidentially with Fabre this very night. How specifically he accomplishes that is not important.

After another great while, Dean notices an odd flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. A couple who had previously been turning elegant circles on the ballroom floor has come to a sudden halt, he sees. And just as he fleetingly shifts his attention to them, they trot away from the other couples that are still dancing and glide directly over to Fabre and Sizemore.

 _Hm_.

Almost unconsciously, Dean leans forward, his curiosity freshly piqued. He glances the two of them up and down, hoping to recognize them, and even from across the room, it only takes him a second or two to place the woman as the orange-haired Lady Lucah, McJones’s friend. But McJones himself, Dean confirms with another quick look, his stomach knotting for a beat, is nowhere to be found. The hand Lady Lucah’s is intertwined with does not belong to him; rather, it is attached to a tall gentleman with curly hair the color of straw brushing against his shoulders—a gentleman whom Dean does not recognize in the slightest.

Fabre’s lips split into a genuine-seeming smile when he notices Lucah and the other man drawing near to him and Sizemore. The four greet each other in turn, and Dean can tell immediately, based on their movements alone, that they are all reasonably familiar with each other. Sizemore, Lucah, and her partner must be fairly high-ranking nobles, then. Given that this Lady Lucah also has some kind of relationship with McJones as well, Dean wonders if she might be a viscountess—and the straw-haired man who is most likely her husband, then, a viscount. But he dismisses the thought almost as soon as it arrives. He will have plenty of chance to look into the identities of these three nobles when he returns home. Now is not the time for this.

But just as the four of them begin to enter into cheerful conversation, the Earl is suddenly approached from behind by a servant—a young woman with red hair pulled back into a tight bow. She stays half-hidden in the doorway, concealed almost out of sight of the rest of the nobles. Her mouth opens in a soft call, and she dips into a polite curtsey when the Earl turns to look at her. He lowers his head, and Dean sees his lips move rapidly as he says something to her. She nods a single time, a sharp jerk of her chin, and answers in no more than a word or two. Then, she spins on her heel and marches back out of the ballroom and into the hallway beyond.

And Fabre follows her.

Dean feels his heart stop for an instant. _Now_ , he thinks, a blur in his mind.

And then he’s moving.

Nearly running as he abandons his spot by the staircase for the first time since he arrived there. Weaving fast around the other guests blocking his path. Speeding across the whole length of the grand room. Brushing past Sizemore, Lady Lucah, and the other gentleman, praying none of them pay a lowly stranger like him any mind at all.

And bursting out of the ballroom with a barely stifled gasp.

Immediately, he freezes in place. His head whips around frantically, his eyes landing on the figures of the Earl and the serving girl just as they turn a corner at the end of the hallway to the right. His muscles shudder with the urge to race after them, but he forces himself to hold still for just a few ticks longer, drawing in a deep, shaking breath to try to regain his composure. He cannot afford to lose control of himself here; he must remain clear-minded and alert no matter what happens. It is only once the beating of his heart has slowed to a more acceptable pace that Dean allows himself to start off again.

Stepping out of the grand ballroom was like passing through to a different world, he notes after a few moments of walking. The corridors of the Earl’s castle stand in absolute jarring contrast to the gleaming warmness of the ballroom: The walls and floors are made of cold, dark-gray stone that the small sconces hung every few feet do little to brighten; there are no music or voices, only faint, echoing footsteps and the sibilant whistling of the wind slipping in through the gaps in the brick; and even the air itself seems to taste different—colder, graver, much sharper and more unforgiving. Or perhaps Dean is simply projecting the sensation of his own stark resolve, weaving its way deeper and deeper into his skin and bones until he feels as if he too has turned to stone.

He has been waiting so long for this opportunity, and now, it is finally happening. But if he fails to achieve what he needs, there will not be a second chance.

Around the corner, he finds the Earl and his servant proceeding down the far end of another long hallway. Dean slows his pace even further such to preserve the large gap of distance between himself and them. He is doing his best to keep his footfalls light and inaudible, and he presses close to the wall in the hope that he will be able to conceal himself in an alcove or behind a column should the Earl happen to suddenly glance behind himself at any time.

Ahead, Fabre and his servant make another turn to the right. And a minute later, when Dean too reaches that next intersecting corridor, he does the same. His breathing feels far too loud for the silent space, but he cannot quite make his inhales grow shallow enough to be muffled. He is on edge, his nerves twisting with a piercing adrenaline he is unable to fully suppress. When he balls his hands into tight fists by his sides, he can feel his fingers trembling just slightly.

At last, just as Dean winds around another corner, he sees the servant guide Fabre abruptly to the left. Not down another hallway, but, rather, over to a pair of wooden doors set into a tall stone arch embedded in the wall. Dean quickly backs up, retreating safely out of sight behind the corner, but he stays close enough to peer around the brick at them. The servant stops long enough to fumble nervously with the metal latch, and she then pushes the door open with a loud squeal of the hinges. The two of them enter, and after a short pause, a soft glow begins to emanate from the room—a likely indication that the serving girl is lighting the candles within.

After another few seconds, Dean begins to hear the low, muffled tones of voices, too far away to properly decipher. Reluctantly, he moves out from around the corner, pressing forward hesitant step by hesitant step, until he is close enough that the voices become intelligible.

“Tell Lord Kramer I will speak with him here in a half an hour’s time. We must discuss the possible trade agreement with the neighboring earldom.”

It is undoubtedly Fabre uttering that command. But something it about it is sharply unexpected to Dean. It takes him a moment to realize that his surprise is born from the fact that he has actually never heard the Earl speak even a single time before now. Unconsciously, he had anticipated a timbre deeper, much more forceful. A tone a shade more fit for, well, _an earl._ But the Earl’s voice is startlingly gentle and high-pitched—almost _friendly_ , in a sense, despite his authoritative words.

“Yes, my lord, I will tell him right away,” comes the serving girl’s obedient reply. “Shall I send for a kitchen maid to bring you something to eat or drink?”

“No, I am still quite satiated from dinner, and I presume Lord Kramer will be as well.”

“Very well, my lord.”

“Take your leave, then. Go deliver my message to him at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Rapid footsteps.

In a frenzied desperation, Dean scrambles back behind the corner, flattening himself against the wall and halting his breath in his chest. Carefully, he slides towards the small alcove beside him, squatting down and silently folding himself inside against the small window. He can see the strike of his pulse in his field of vision, and he presses his lips together so tightly they go numb in order to stifle even the slightest sound.

But, to his immense, immense relief, he hears the serving girl go marching down the other hallway in the exact opposite direction. And then, as the clacking of her shoes against the stone floor fades away to complete quiet, Dean is alone.

Almost alone.

He lingers where he is, tucked away into the alcove, for perhaps a minute or two more. He mentally reviews his plan—the careful actions he needs to take in order to accomplish precisely what he wants—for a final time. It seems almost surreal; he has been preparing for this for what feels like an eternity, for several lifetimes over. And now, everything is on the very precipice of being set, irreversibly, in motion.

Slowly, Dean creeps out from within the alcove and draws himself up to his full height. He runs his tongue over his dry lips and exhales, squaring his shoulders with a metallic sort of dawning confidence. From now, there is no faltering. No hesitation.

No turning back.

He begins to walk. His movements are sharp, pointed. Each plant of his shoe against the ground sends a slight shudder through his body. He feels his eyes growing narrower and narrower, the muscles in his face tightening in hard concentration. In just a few seconds, seconds that seem like hours each, he reaches the high doorway Fabre and the serving girl passed through just shortly before. Fortunately, one of the two doors stands wide open, a clean slice of candlelight spilling out onto the uneven stone floor. And Dean pauses in the cloaking shadow of the other, still-closed door, leaning forward to gaze into the interior of the room.

He immediately recognizes it as a sitting room of some variety; it marks a sudden return to the ornateness and opulence that was found in the grand ballroom. The center of the room is occupied by four wide cabriole couches made of ruby-colored velvet with golden trim. The bare floor is hidden beneath a beautifully woven rug, and an enormous, unlit, cobblestone fireplace stands to one side. Two high windows are cut into the far wall, the hanging curtains drawn partially across them to hide the gloomy night beyond.

And right there, right before Dean’s eyes, is the Earl of Azmarin.

He is standing with his back to the doorway, his head bowed and his hands braced on the edge of the nearest of the couches. The moment Dean sees him, every inch of his body goes still. His breath stutters faintly as he stands there, frozen, numb, ice-like, taking in the sight of Fabre not even ten feet away. He feels as if he could almost reach out and graze the back of Fabre’s surcoat with his fingertips if he tried.

Then, Fabre emits a heavy sigh that makes Dean physically jerk with its suddenness. As Dean watches, Fabre reaches up to rub his face roughly with the heels of his hands, making a low, growling noise in the deepest parts of his throat. Even from behind, Dean notices that his golden-brown hair looks now slightly unkempt, slightly mussed from how prim and perfectly combed it was before. And, up close, it is also quite plain that his beard and mustache have not been trimmed in several days at the least. His appearance and body language indicate a sort of deep-seated exhaustion that Dean is genuinely surprised to find in him.

He really is not much older than Dean, come to think of it. Earls are not generally as young as he; he ascended the throne at the mere age of twenty-seven after his father suddenly took ill and died. His mother, the dowager earl, is long-deceased as well, having passed away shortly after his younger sister was born. As for Fabre’s sisters, they—both older and younger—are presumably not particularly close with him; the three of them have resided in an entirely different kingdom since their father’s passing. Dean has heard before that the eldest of them married a foreign marquess some time ago, but that is neither here nor there, frankly.

The matter of greatest note is that Fabre is still so young. He has such a long and fruitful life of ruling ahead of him. But despite his youth, he appears strikingly worn, haggard, tired. He must be under an enormous amount of stress every single day. Dean can only imagine how difficult it must be to command an earldom and every subject living within it. And furthermore, earls, as much dominion as they have, are quite low-ranking in the broader scheme of the royal hierarchy. They are very much subject to commands from above—from marquesses, dukes, and, at the very top, the King himself. Fabre is caught in the very middle of it. Holding power but not _too_ much power. Having to rule but also to understand his place. A most tenuous balance, to be certain.

Then, the thought that Dean was dwelling on earlier in the evening resurfaces quite suddenly in his mind like the breach of a whale: _The more power you hold, the more eyes watch you._ It still rings just as true in his bones as it did then, hours ago. It is never good to be known in the way Fabre is known—in the way _all_ nobility of such high rank are known. Authority begets opportunity, true enough, but it also begets scrutiny. No, it is far better to maintain anonymity. To know all and yet be known by none. To be silent and unseen, merely a transparent figure concealed in the background, even if you have nothing of worth to your name whatsoever.

Power is a double-edged sword indeed.

What a pity.

Dean steels himself. Exhales deeply, slowly. Shuts his eyes for a moment. Reopens them.

And starts again to walk.

He presses forward, finally emerging from within the shadows out into the all-illuminating candlelight. In a single stride, he crosses the threshold into the room. Approaching the Earl, still facing away. Moving faster and faster, closing in. Feeling everything in the world center down to this one instant. No longer concerned about being silent. No longer concerned about anything but the man right before him—Lord Jeffrey Fabre, the Earl of Azmarin.

His hand finds the knife concealed at his hip and plunges it into Fabre’s back.

The blade sinks deep into his flesh with a _slurch._ Cutting raggedly through fabric and skin and vessels. Fabre cries out shrilly, hoarsely, but then Dean’s hand is clamping hard over his mouth, stifling the sound. Tightening his fingers, he tears the blade from Fabre and drives it in again. And again. And again. Over and over and over Dean stabs him. Blood spurts forth, streaming over his fingers and the hilt of the blade, slicking his grip. Fabre thrashes in his arms, straining, fighting. But Dean is stronger. He clenches his fist and, in a split-second impulse, drives the knife instead upwards into the side of Fabre’s neck. Fabre heaves, jolts, his head snapping forward, and Dean twists the hilt hard, feeling muscles and arteries sever. Feeling Fabre’s limbs go suddenly slack. Blood pours down his arm. He cannot even make out the form of his hand beneath the gush of blood. He can feel Fabre gagging against his palm. Everything smells like copper. Everything is wet. Everything is brilliant red.

Finally, Dean wrenches the knife back and releases Fabre.

And Fabre crumples.

He falls to the ground like his legs are without bone. He lies there, twitching, spasming, emitting faint, animalistic choking sounds, the wounds in his body dark with still-flowing blood and shredded, meat-like skin. And Dean simply stands over him, staring coldly down at him, watching him silently until his movements fade away to utter stillness. To nothing.

To nothing at all.

Finally, at long last, Dean swallows. And swallows again, slowly. His first movement in what feels like an eternity. His throat is dry. His ears are ringing. The edges of his vision have gone fuzzy. His breathing is loud, labored, and his heart hammers against his chest. After a few beats, he releases a sharp breath that claws its way from his lungs, scratching his windpipe to bits. His eyes feel almost painful in his sockets as he swivels them, little by little reacquainting himself with his surroundings.

And it’s then that he’s struck by the sheer _magnitude_ of the mess he’s made, the sheer volume of the blood he’s spilt. The rug beneath his shoes is painted with it so thickly he can barely pick out the intricate, woven patterns in the fabric anymore. And Fabre’s corpse lies before him in a rippling pool of crimson, deep enough that it splashes when Dean lets the knife slip from his hand. He didn’t know the human body had such blood in it to give. It feels as if he must have turned Fabre completely inside out for there to be this much of it all over the room. 

He only realizes that he, too, is soaked with Fabre’s blood when he presses his hand to his chest and feels soggy fabric. He looks down to find that it is splattered all over his front, matting his shirt to his chest. His fingers and hands, too, are dyed with it, turned so thoroughly red that he almost looks to be wearing gloves. Whenever he moves his arms, fat drops roll down his knuckles and fall from his fingertips like rain. There is a fair amount of blood on his face as well, spattered across the frames of his glasses and dripping down his cheeks.

Fabre’s clothing has fared little better than Dean’s, quite expectedly. The back of him is almost unrecognizable as once having been colored the elegant purple of royalty. But through the ruby stains covering his surcoat, Dean can still faintly see the Fabre family coat of arms embroidered neatly on the back of it. And the motto emblazoned within the crest stares up at him, stark and simplistic:

 _Buaidh nó bás_.

Victory or death.

It seems almost ironic now. Because for Dean, victory _is_ death.

His victory is Fabre’s death.

Dean’s bloody hand finds his bloody forehead. He gives a shaky sigh, and slowly, the full gravity of this situation begins to settle in. Because—he has succeeded. _He has succeeded._ He had only one goal for attending this ball tonight, and he has accomplished it exactly the way he wanted. Every single piece has fallen right into place. All of his months and months of preparation have paid off beautifully.

And despite his grim, gruesome surroundings, Dean feels himself break into a small, almost disbelieving smile.

However, while killing the Earl was the majority of his objective, there is still the very important matter of his escape; after all, he cannot very well return to the ballroom and attempt to blend back in with the other guests in his current state. _Half an hour’s time_ , is what Fabre said to the serving girl. So Dean has almost that long to make his retreat. More than enough opportunity. If all continues to go well, he should be long vanished by the time anyone stumbles upon the Earl’s corpse.

Dean starts to back up towards the doorway, but his gaze lingers on Fabre’s lifeless body for a moment longer. He studies, just briefly, the deep stab wounds in Fabre’s back and neck, the steadily-paling color of his skin. His slackened face, only able to be halfway seen from the angle his head is turned at. His green eyes, quite visibly hollow, quite visibly lacking any sense that he was ever a living creature at all.

He is well and truly dead.

After a pause, Dean gives a slight shake of his head. And then, he spins on his bloodstained heel and darts out of the room.

Back outside in the stony, gray corridor, Dean quickly breaks into a jog; haste is vastly more important than stealth now. Instead of hurrying back from whence he came, though, he follows the same path that the serving girl took after she unknowingly left Fabre to his fate. Dean’s destination now is the Earl’s private bedchamber on the third floor, and for very good reason: There is a servants’ staircase concealed within the back walls of the castle, a staircase leading directly from the Earl’s chamber all the way down to a small exit in the rear of the castle. The staircase is usually utilized by maids and servants to travel quickly throughout the castle without being seen, but right now, it should be completely vacant; Dean has confirmed that all of the servants are currently occupied with tending to the ball and its guests.

Dean reaches the first set of stairs and dashes up them without hesitation, unconcerned about the bloody bootprints he leaves on every step he touches. He knows precisely how to reach the Earl’s chamber; he committed a detailed map of the castle to memory in preparation for this very moment. He was quite fortunate to catch the Earl in the sitting room, as it is only a brief walk from there to the bedchamber. But no matter where he was in the castle when he killed Fabre, he would have easily been able to calculate in his mind the safest and most expeditious route to the servants’ staircase. After all, a plan of execution means absolutely nothing if one has no plan of escape to follow it.

The second set of stairs is located several hallways away from the landing of the first. Passing through them, Dean pushes himself from a jog into a full sprint. There is really no particular need for him to be running like this, but his body is filled with a strange kind of energy that demands to be let out. The thudding of his footsteps echoes off the walls, leaving a trail of sound in his wake. His pulse sounds like the steady beat of a drum in his ribcage. He reaches out and catches the corner of the wall as he whirls around it to the right, his fingers gliding through the gaps in the stone. There, he comes upon the second staircase, just as he expected, and ascends it two steps at a time.

He moves almost without thought, as if his legs have already carried him along this very path a thousand times over. Meeting another intersection and spinning sharply ‘round the corner. Following the twists and turns of the hallway as it jerks right and left and right again. Feeling the walls narrowing in little by little as he proceeds closer and closer. Climbing a third, tiny, spiraling set of stairs, winding up and up and up. Emerging, finally, into the short, dead-ended passageway, the walls adored with regal drapery. Crossing it in a few sprinting strides. Reaching that elegant oak door, faintly ajar. Bursting swiftly through, into the Earl’s chamber, and—

—And freezing.

An array of sights strikes Dean all at once.

The Earl’s bed, four posts supporting an elegant canopy. His stone fireplace, his braided throw rug. A small door in the far corner of the room, the very door to the secret stairwell Dean is seeking. A worn desk with a single, lit candle. A spilled inkwell leaking across a loose piece of parchment and onto the floor. A set of bookshelves packed with colorful yet unmarked spines, towering high above Dean’s head.

And beside one of the bookshelves, a brick in the stone wall missing. Through the hole, a hidden space behind the wall revealed. Numerous ornate boxes sitting unlatched. Gold and jewelry and gems lying in piles all over the floor. A leather pouch in one hand, and a necklace dangling from the other.

The hands that belong to the figure. The figure, rooted there like a statue. The figure’s head, snapping over in a blur. An audible gasp bursting out. Round eyes colliding with Dean’s. A split-second flash of silver.

And Stewart Hargrave, the eldest son of the Viscount Hargrave, standing there with the tip of his sword pointed directly at Dean’s heart.

Dean’s blood shudders to a cold halt in his veins. For a long, long instant, he and McJones simply stare at each other from across the room. McJones is rigid. Dean can see him breathing hard, his chest rising and falling violently. His left hand is shaking slightly, his blade wobbling in the low candlelight. After a moment, he purses his lips together, and his Adam’s apple dips with a slow swallow. Dean remains motionless. Their eyes remain locked.

“…It seems we have both come to this ball for similar purposes,” McJones says quietly. His voice is frigid, unreadable.

Dean says nothing in reply, not even a murmur of acknowledgement. He is at an absolute loss, stripped bare of all language and coherency. His mind is struggling to fit the misshapen shards of this situation together, struggling to bear the weight of this new information that has all presented itself at once. McJones, he remembers, alluded several times over to _having his reasons_ for coming here tonight, and Dean is quickly realizing that those very reasons of his—they must all boil down to this. To sneaking into the Earl’s bedchamber and picking through his hidden trove of riches, a trove that Dean never knew existed even in all of his extensive research in preparation for tonight.

Then, McJones’s eyes snap away from Dean’s at last. And Dean sees them go trailing, inch by inch, along the thick spatters of blood soaking through Dean’s clothes.

“The Earl?” he murmurs, no more than a breath.

“Yes,” Dean answers simply. No worth in trying to hide it now. McJones is too smart for that.

“I see.”

And something in the crook of McJones’s tone makes Dean’s heart stutter-step.

“It—it was politically motivated,” he blurts, the words pouring out of his mouth in a rush that comes too loudly. He holds up his hands, palms turned outwards. Feeling, for the very first time, the pull of true fear. “I promise you, I’m not a danger to you,” he babbles on. “I—I’m not going to hurt you; I would swear it on my father’s life. I am just—”

McJones interrupts with a surprisingly undignified snort, and the expression on his face shifts in a matter of microseconds from dark, icy shock to plain, tepid amusement.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m the son of a viscount, remember? I know _all_ about strategic political moves,” he says somewhat breezily. And with that, he at last lowers his sword to his side in a fluid, bizarrely casual motion. But when he notices Dean’s gaze catching, following the polished edge of the blade, he tips his chin in a way that seems almost sheepish.

“I do apologize for drawing my sword on you. You startled me, is all, when you came barreling in here like a wild bull, looking…well, like _that_.”

“I…”

But Dean simply lets himself trail off. There is nothing really to say after you find yourself on the receiving end of a man’s sword, even incidentally. After a long moment, he very hesitantly proceeds out of the doorway and into the whole of the bedchamber, coming to a standstill beside one of the tall bookshelves. McJones studies him for another second before finally turning away. And Dean expects McJones to say at least _something_ else, but all he does is bend, extract a lump of what appears to be gold from one of the open boxes, and squint at it.

Dean watches as McJones twists the piece of gold around in his fingers, feeling his brow begin to furrow. “So…you aren’t even going to question me?” he starts slowly, unable to prevent himself from sounding as incredulous as he feels. “You are simply going to believe the word of a murderer?”

But McJones only scoffs, tossing him a sideways glance. “Please. I could name a dozen reasons just off the top of my head why a man would want to murder the Earl of Azmarin. And not a single one of them would have anything to do with the kind of person he is or him possessing a particular fondness for bloodshed.”

“You—” Dean says, but then he shuts his mouth again. Because what McJones says is true; Dean himself does not hold any sort of partiality for killing whatsoever. Murdering Fabre was simply business for him, a means to an end. Not a pleasurable act in and of itself. He would never go off gallivanting, stabbing others simply for the fun of it. 

“But even if you _were_ a threat to me,” McJones continues on, then, “do you think this sword is just for show? I have been trained in swordsmanship since the tender age of eight. I could kill you ten times faster, cleaner, and quieter than I’m sure you killed Fabre. I mean, look at yourself.” McJones throws out a hand. “You’re a disgrace.”

Reflexively, Dean peers down at his bloodstained front. He is no longer actually dripping blood from his clothes or his hands, fortunately, but that is little improvement. His appearance would easily suggest that it was he himself who had his throat slit. After a few seconds, he impulsively scrubs his hands across the front of his shirt, but this only succeeds in re-bloodying his palms, so he simply allows his arms to fall back to his sides and returns his gaze to McJones.

And with an exasperated sigh, McJones digs a hand into his pocket and produces a wadded handkerchief. “Here,” he says, dangling it in Dean’s direction. “Clean yourself up.”

Surprised, Dean takes a halting step forward and reaches out to pluck the handkerchief from McJones’s fingers. It is fairly small, not even close to enough to allow Dean to actually _clean himself up_. But, at the very least, it is enough to wipe his face, and so Dean sets to work mopping some of the now-drying blood from his cheeks.

In the meanwhile, McJones returns to his work. After another brief inspection, he drops the piece of gold he is holding into the pouch in his other hand—the pouch that Dean notices is already over halfway filled with shining treasure. Then, he reaches back into the golden box and pulls out the next item he reaches, a silver-chained necklace with a rich, purple pendant.

As Dean rubs a clean spot on the handkerchief against the lenses of his glasses, he clears his throat. “Forgive me for asking,” he begins, “but why, exactly, are you helping me? Did you not speak earlier with such scorn for these kinds of political moves? Did you not express legitimate worry over the fact that every single noble at this ball tonight has ulterior motives?”

“No, I said I was worried for _my brother_ , not for myself,” McJones answers without even a second of pause, his eyes cutting over to Dean. “Austin does not know how to play political chess. But I do. Any smart noble will seize a chance whenever it presents itself. And I know I may be different from other nobles in many a way—” and here, a self-deprecating smirk stretches across McJones’s face, “—but this is not one of them.”

He goes silent for a brief span, and then Dean sees him draw to a stand again. “I am not afraid of you, Dean Elazab, if that is what you’re asking,” he says plainly, starkly. “You are a very smart man. And I trust that you knew what you were doing by killing the Earl.”

It is quite a strange thing indeed to hear a man of McJones’s standing telling Dean outright that he has no qualms with the fact that Dean just slew the Earl of Azmarin in cold blood. In fact, McJones’s utter lack of concern over the situation is almost comical, in a way, and Dean is surprised to feel the hint of a smile playing at his mouth.

By this point, even without being able to see himself, Dean knows he has cleaned most of the blood from his face; just the feeling—or now, that is, the lack thereof—is enough to tell. And when he finally withdraws the handkerchief, he finds that it has turned the same dark ruby-red as the rest of him. It almost feels wrong to have dirtied such an elegant piece of cloth; the fabric is impossibly soft to the touch, and now that he is looking at it closely again, he notices that there is even a thin trim of lace running all around the edge. A thin trim of lace, of course, that is now completely splotched over with blood. Dean winces.

“I’m sorry, this handkerchief is rather—”

“Not a problem.”

McJones does not make any indication that he wants the handkerchief returned, which is more than understandable. After a moment, Dean simply balls it up and slides it into his own trouser pocket.

McJones is slowly working his way through the remainder of the Earl’s treasure, having now moved on to appraising a tiny velvet sack about the length of his middle finger. When he tugs it open and upends it, several polished gemstones tumble out and into the palm of his hand. One by one, he holds them up to the candlelight, assessing them as the shine plays on their facets. After a minute of watching McJones, Dean settles himself comfortably back against the bookshelf nearest himself, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles.

“If I may posit a question, why didn’t you just kill Fabre yourself, if you care so much about seizing opportunities when they arise?” he asks.

“I considered it, but ultimately, it was too much trouble,” McJones answers frankly as he presses the gemstones back into the sack and gently tugs the drawstrings shut. But instead of depositing it in his bag, he simply returns it to the box he pulled it from. “I didn’t need him dead, I just needed him to be distracted long enough that I could break into his chamber and, well, take his valuables. And one should only do what’s necessary in situations like this. Going over and above is rarely beneficial.”

“Mm, I see.” Dean nods thoughtfully, although McJones is not looking at him.

“…I suppose I ought to thank you regardless, though,” McJones adds somewhat abruptly after a pause. “With Fabre having been removed from the picture altogether, you have made my job tonight much, much easier.”

“Oh no, there’s no need to thank me; I have quite a few of my own motives here.”

“I am sure you do, Dean Elazab. But even still.”

McJones turns, then, and steps closer to Dean. Dean sees his mouth purse slightly and his brow furrow, as if he is mulling something over. Reaching down, he peels open the flap of his leather pouch once more and paws around inside, sifting through gleaming gold and silver with almost careless fingers. Finally, he produces a gold-banded ring with a pale blue stone set in the socket, and he holds it out towards Dean in the palm of his hand.

“Here,” he says, giving an encouraging thrust of his hand, “take this.”

Dean stares at him, startled. McJones went to all this effort to steal the Earl’s treasure, and now he is just going to give it away to a stranger he met mere hours ago?

“A—are you sure?”

McJones nods once, firmly. “Yes. Take it.”

After a few seconds more of hesitation, Dean reaches out and gingerly lifts the ring from McJones’s hand, his fingertips brushing lightly against McJones’s skin as he does. It weighs less than he expects, and it is vaguely cool to the touch. The band is smooth and polished, with intricate swirls and leaf-shaped prongs clutching a round gemstone dappled stark white and gentle blue. Upon even closer examination, Dean notices minute, intersecting needles of pale yellow stretching like silk all throughout the inside of the stone.

“A sapphire of that size will sell for hundreds of thousands. Perhaps even millions,” McJones murmurs. The sudden nearness of his voice is startling, and Dean looks up to find that he is now standing a mere foot or two away, his head lowered as he thoughtfully studies the ring held in Dean’s fingers.

“Will it really? How can you tell?” Dean asks.

“I know a thing or two about gemstones. If you treat them—that is, if you heat them at a very high temperature—you enhance their color, but you also reduce their worth as a side effect.” McJones leans in, drawing a circle with his finger in the air just above the ring. “This stone is untreated—you can tell by the cloudy appearance, see?”

Dean follows McJones’s finger back to the gem. Truthfully, he would never have guessed it to be a sapphire had McJones not outright told him. He honestly cannot fathom why a murky stone like this would be worth _more_ than those gorgeous, azure sapphires—like fragments of the sea itself chipped away—that he has seen here and there. But if someone out there is really willing to pay that much for it, he supposes he won’t complain.

At last, his gaze returns to McJones, who is already looking up at him again, green irises reflecting the wobbling candlelight. “And you knew all that just by the sight of it?” Dean says.

“Of course. Unheated blue sapphires have a very distinct appearance; they still contain the rutile inclusions that treatment rids them of. I can also see that it is much bigger than most gems of this type come—at least eight millimeters; perhaps two-and-a-half carets, even—so that will greatly increase its selling price as well. The Earl of Azmarin was truly fortunate to come into such a precious jewel as this.”

That small, indistinct smile Dean has been fighting all long finally breaks through onto his lips. “Goodness. I’m impressed,” he remarks, raising his eyebrows. “You really _are_ a scholar.”

And Dean doesn’t miss the way McJones’s cheeks pinken slightly. “I have read books, yes,” he mumbles.

“My, my, handsome, smart, _and_ modest.” Dean cannot stop himself from offering a slight wink. “It is a wonder a beautiful young maiden hasn’t snapped you up yet.”

“Well.”

McJones’s eyes slide away, his chin dipping in a blatantly flustered manner, and Dean’s smile widens in response. He twiddles the Earl’s ring in his fingers, spinning it wobblingly around the end of his pinkie, before finally breaking the silence once more:

“Anyhow, I do appreciate you giving me this ring. It is very generous of you, especially if it truly is worth as much as you say.”

McJones chuckles. “It isn’t exactly mine to _give_ , is it? But regardless, think nothing of it. I feel as if I owe you some sort of repayment, both for removing the Earl from my list of concerns and for—” and he pauses for the span of a hair, “—well, frankly, for keeping me company all evening.”

If keeping one’s company is a compensable act, then Dean thinks that, in actuality, it is _he_ who owes _McJones_ one thousand sapphire rings of his own. But he bites away that saccharine reply and simply bobs his head in understanding. And, with no better place to put it, Dean tucks the ring away in the same pocket as McJones’s bloody handkerchief.

“By the way, take care not to sell it anywhere near this region,” McJones adds after a moment as he turns, making his way back over to where the Earl’s treasure is scattered across the throw rug. “Travel to another part of the kingdom, as far away from Azmarin as you can get. Otherwise, someone might put two and two together; untreated gems like that one are exceptionally rare, and I would imagine news of this heist will be public within the day, so people will certainly be on the lookout.”

And Dean sharply and very impetuously draws back, making an almost squawking sound of indignation. “Do you think me an idiot? _Of course_ I wouldn’t sell it around here!” he snaps.

McJones snickers lightly, waving away the hard glare Dean aims towards him. “Yes, yes, pardon me, I was just making sure. I would very much like to avoid being outed as a thief, you know.”

“At least you’re only a thief!” Dean jabs his thumb into his bloodied chest. “I’m a murderer—and a murderer of much lower status than _you_ , at that! Tell me, which of us has more to fear?”

“Point taken. But you are quite wrong, sir, if you think being the Viscount’s heir would shield me from any of the repercussions of robbing the Earl of Azmarin.”

Dean only harrumphs at that, which draws another soft giggle out of McJones. He looks over at Dean with a lopsided smirk, his eyes crinkled and his cheeks creased. “Oh, and by the way?”

“Yes?” Dean intones, dragging out the word.

“Am I correct in presuming that you are not actually Dean Elazab, esquire, eldest son of the eldest son of Sir Ali Elazab?”

Dean’s exact words from earlier thrown right back at him. It is more than enough to cast away his expression of faux-irritation and replace it cleanly with a look of pure merriment. “That _is_ my real name,” he says, “but the rest of it? Not at all.”

It’s not so much of a _confession_ as it is a _boast_. A gleeful, proud admission of the carefully-crafted façade he has managed to maintain all throughout the night despite everything.

And the instant the utterance leaves his mouth, McJones’s eyes spark to life. “I _knew_ something was different about you as soon as I met you,” he throws back with a snap of his fingers. “Your speaking needs work; you talk like a peasant.” He grins toothily. “But I like it. It’s nothing like those stuffy aristocrats back there.” And suddenly, his voice twists, deepens, turns harshly mocking. “ _The Right Honorable The Viscount_ —ugh, I can’t _stand_ them.”

He mimes sticking his finger down his throat, and Dean bursts out laughing.

“You—” he wheezes. “You really aren’t a typical noble, are you? That _Right Honorable The Viscount_ is going to be you someday, you do realize.”

“Ugh, please, Dean, don’t remind me.”

The genuine disgust in McJones’s voice sends Dean spiraling into hysterics all over again. By the time he manages to calm himself down, wiping genuine tears of mirth from his eyes, McJones has already returned to combing through the Earl’s treasure. Dean watches him for a few minutes or so more as he selects an additional couple of rings, a handful of gold coins, and what appears to be a genuine diamond bracelet and drops them all into his full-to-bursting pouch. Then, he braces his hands on his thighs and brings himself to a stand once again.

“This should be more than enough,” he says definitively. Glancing to Dean, he holds out an arm. “Would you like anything? Feel free to take your fill.”

And Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. But, after a pause, he shakes his head. “No, the ring you offered me is plenty. I really have no way to carry anything more. And besides, I don’t exactly need to draw additional attention to myself, do I? I am going to be concerned enough with just selling the one ring without being connected to the Earl’s murder.”

“Fair enough.”

With that, McJones leans over and begins to place all of the remaining jewelry and gold back into the boxes from which it came, cleaning up his mess. And after a moment, Dean crosses the few steps over to him and begins to help him, for which he shoots Dean a grateful look. They move in tandem, slightly less than methodically, not concerning themselves with sorting anything but simply putting it all back in whatever box is nearest within reach.

“Might as well delay the discovery that Fabre has been robbed,” McJones muses as they work. “Although, I suppose that that time has already been lengthened considerably now that he is, well, dead. I cannot imagine that checking on his hidden gold and jewels—if anyone other than he even knows they exist—will be any sort of priority after his corpse is found lying about.”

“No, I am sure it won’t,” Dean agrees.

“Judging by look of you, I am sure it is not a pretty scene.”

“I may have ruined a hand-woven rug.”

McJones smiles, eyes twinkling from behind his glasses. “How utterly heartless of you.”

When they’re through, they slide the boxes back into the hidden recess in the wall. Then, with a grunt, McJones hefts the missing brick sitting on the ground into his arms and shoves it back into place. And, just like that, it is as if nothing ever happened. Even when he leans in close, Dean is completely unable to discern the seam between the loose stone brick and the rest of the wall. He cannot even fathom how McJones managed to locate it in the first place.

“Well, I consider that a resounding success,” McJones remarks, letting out a breath. One hand, he plants confidently on his hip, and the other he runs through his mussed golden-brown hair.

“Lady Fate was on both of our sides tonight, wasn’t she?” Dean adds with a soft nod.

Then, almost instinctively, he finds himself twisting to look over at the door again—the small door to the secret staircase concealed in the very corner of the room. In the heat of everything, he had nearly forgotten all about it. And as he gazes at it, at the dark metal hinges and the indistinct whorls in the wood, a sense of urgency begins to press on his chest anew. He cannot afford to dawdle too much longer, even as much as thinks he would prefer to spend the rest of eternity here in the Earl’s bedchamber alone with McJones, free from the constraints of the outside world. So, with a sigh, he finally turns back to McJones.

“I suppose we must depart from here before we are discovered.”

“I suppose we must,” McJones repeats with a throaty sigh. His lips purse in an amusingly displeased fashion, and he scratches at his goatee. “I must say, I am very, very, _very_ much not looking forward to returning to the ballroom. My brother is—well, _somewhere_ , and I do not presume I will be seeing much of him again until it comes time to leave; my good friend the Lady Lucah is occupied with her husband and Lord Sizemore in important business of her own; and the only other person here I care to spend any notable amount of time with—” McJones abruptly throws out his hand in Dean’s direction, making Dean’s skin prickle, “—is in no condition to do anything but flee the castle and pretend he was never here. Not to mention that my feet hurt, I can feel a headache coming on, and—and _heaven knows how much longer this blasted ball is going to continue._ ”

McJones shakes his head gruffly, and Dean has to quite literally stifle a laugh. He sympathizes with McJones, he really does, but McJones is just so—so—

And the word that immediately erupts in Dean’s mind is _adorable_.

It surprises him for a quarter of a second, but then it quickly settles in on him, wrapping around him like a snake with tempting slit-eyes and long fangs dripping poison. Because, really, McJones _is_ adorable. He is just so small compared to Dean, and his voice is just so gentle and melodious, and his triangle mouth is almost rather… _enchanting_ , in a sense, when he twists it like that. Plain and simple, he’s adorable. And he’s pretty. And he’s handsome. And Dean has been drinking in the sight of him ever since that first moment they met, sipping him like the fine wine served at dinner.

And it’s only just now that Dean realizes he’s gotten tipsy.

Dean holds out his arm, the dim candlelight suddenly feeling a note too bright. “Why don’t you just come along with me, then?” he says, his tongue clicking strangely and unfamiliarly in his mouth. “I could take you to my escape route.”

McJones turns to curiously look up at him. And in that instant, Dean finds that any concern he might feel over being too forward or too presumptive or too _anything_ with McJones is simply no longer there. It is gone, gone, gone without even a lingering trace. He just does not care. He has no reason at all to fear what McJones might think of him anymore, considering everything the two of them have been through. The miraculous realization of it swells in the very center of his heart, growing warmer and giddier until it emboldens him to speak on, an eager grin forming on his lips:

“See that door over there in the corner? Just through there is a set of stairs that leads all the way down to the ground floor and out a back door. It is only used by the servants, and quite obviously, they should all be busy right now, so there is little chance of us being intercepted.”

McJones is silent for a moment. “Mm,” he hums in reply, seeming pensive, “I did not intend on making my escape, truthfully. I was planning to store my bag—” he pats it a few times, by his side, “—in a certain hole in the wall concealed behind a tapestry in the hallway. And then I would simply retrieve it later as I am leaving once the ball is over.”

“Oh, I see. But that is a little risky, don’t you think?” Dean lifts a cautious finger. “Suppose a servant were to stumble across this _certain hole in the wall_ you speak of. At the best, they would whisk the bag away for themselves and you would lose all you worked for. And at the very worst, your crimes would be found out, and you would be ostracized from your family forever. After all, you assured me yourself that you would face dire consequences for your thievery.”

McJones chews on his lower lip, his eyes lowering, and says nothing. Dean has struck a nerve, he can tell, and his heart squeezes with a mix of regret, sympathy, and something else he cannot quite place.

“Listen,” he continues, his voice softening, “if you come with me right now, you can avoid all of that, guaranteed. It…well, it would not do wonders for your aching feet or your headache, I must admit, but at least you would keep good company.”

Dean aims for a charming smile to punctuate the offer, and he knows he lands it head-on by the way McJones’s one eyebrow begins to curiously rise up his forehead.

“Come with you _where_ , may I ask?”

“Oh ho, I was _hoping_ you would ask! You see, good sir—” at that, McJones snorts, and Dean feels his chest grow even hotter, “—you see, there is an inn not terribly far from the castle; I imagine we could reach it in no more than an hour’s walk, mostly following the path of the cobblestone road. I am casually acquainted with the innkeeper, and as long as we can pay him in full for a room, he will look the other way on everything else.”

McJones releases a long exhale, tipping his head to the side. “I don’t know…” he says reluctantly.

And—there is just something about him. Something about the way the candlelight is playing on his face, on his hair, on the rims of his glasses. Something about the serene, quietly contemplative look on his soft features. Something that strikes Dean in the most sensitive, most unguarded part of his soul.

He takes a faltering step closer to McJones. And another. And so carefully, so featherlight, he reaches out and trails his fingertips along the back of McJones’s hand. McJones instantly jerks his head up at Dean, startled. But Dean sees a flash of something in his eyes. A twisting, smoldering sort of hunger, sparking to life deep down behind his irises.

“I’ve been looking at your pretty face for hours now,” Dean murmurs, leaning in. “Let me take you out. Let us get away from all these—oh, what did you call them?— _stuffy aristocrats_.”

They’re standing close, now. So close. Nearly toe to toe. McJones gazes up at Dean, eyelids fluttering in a slow, delicate way that makes it feel as if time itself has ground to a near-halt.

“People would talk,” he says, but it comes out breathy. And Dean is not tipsy, but _drunk_. So, so drunk on him.

“Honestly, Stewart,” he answers in a voice low, husky, almost growly. His words hang in the air between them, holding so many implications behind their stark simplicity. “Do you honestly care what _people_ have to say?”

And the final walls still holding them apart crack and crumble away to dust.

In the span of a heartbeat, Dean catches McJones by the middle, draws him in, and kisses him. And McJones is more than prepared for it; his mouth meets Dean’s halfway up with a fierceness that makes Dean’s knees go weak. Their lips melt together, their heads angled in the most delicious and instinctive way, and suddenly all there is on Dean’s tongue is the taste of McJones.

McJones’s mouth is hot, wanting, parting slightly as he gasps up into Dean. His fingers claw at Dean’s shoulders, and Dean senses him pressing all the way up onto the balls of his feet, desperately needing more, more, more. And Dean craves just the same from him. He grabs at the dip of McJones’s waist, feeling McJones shudder with the intimacy of it. After a moment, McJones’s hand comes up to clutch at the back of Dean’s head, drawing Dean down into him hungrily.

And they kiss. They just stand there, kissing and kissing and kissing. Letting out with all of the tangled feelings that have been building within them ever since they exchanged those very first words. Having their way with each other until it actually starts to hurt. And when they break apart at long last, Dean feels like a paper screen that someone has punched a hole right through, his edges flayed in jagged, upward curls.

They draw back from each other somewhat, only a single step’s worth of space. Neither of them speaks. McJones stares at Dean, his face flushed deep red and his eyes thick with a sort of intensity that makes Dean nearly forget how to breathe. He’s bloody too, now. Bloody from where Dean’s hands slid all over him, bloody from where their chests came bumping together. Bloody at the very corner of his mouth, where Dean’s lips smashed into his.

Then, as if he can sense Dean’s very thoughts, his tongue darts out, wet and pink and hypnotizing, and he licks the smear of crimson away. And Dean feels some part of his stomach crawl into his throat.

“Please,” he says suddenly, and the sheer hoarseness of his own voice startles him. “Please, just come along with me.” His hands twist together with a frenetic nervousness. “We—we could run off together, even. Just forget about all of this. Make a new life for ourselves with the Earl’s treasure. If you’re correct about what all this is worth—oh, we’d live as comfortable as any royal.”

But McJones’s gaze only tumbles down to the floor. “…Now you’re just being fanciful,” he mutters.

Dean is. But now that his mind has conjured up the idea, he quickly finds himself coiled in it. Coiled in the thought of himself and McJones living together in a cabin in the woods, small yet warm and cozy and just enough for the two of them. Spending their days lying about and tending to a vegetable garden and reading books by the fireplace. Making weekly trips into town to sell their produce at the market and turn a small profit—although money is really no object with the Earl’s treasure in their possession. And, at night, when the moon rises and the stars emerge from the cloak of day one by one by one, the two of them clambering into the same, tiny, creaky bed and falling asleep curled protectively around each other.

For a microsecond, Dean can almost feel it—the warmth of their fireplace, of their downy bedcovers, of the press of McJones’s back against his chest. He knows that, just by the very nature of their circumstances, it could never truly come to be. But somehow, the mere idea of it soothes him anyway. And perhaps McJones is contemplating the very same thing—that little, imaginary life of theirs that was erased before it could even try to lift its own head up and survive—because a small smile plays at his lips, crinkling his ruddy cheeks.

“It—it _is_ a nice thought, I do admit,” he continues at last, “but I don’t think I could just run away with you like that. I love my brother, and I love my parents, and as much as I complain, I honestly don’t particularly mind my life. As stuffy and constraining as it may be, it also affords me many advantages that I wouldn’t readily give up. And anyhow, I can somewhat mitigate the stuffiness by surrounding myself with as many _non_ -stuffy people as I can.”

He quite pointedly cocks his head at Dean, and his meaning is immediately obvious, striking Dean right through the center of his chest. He taps his finger to his chin, pretending to ponder that for a moment. “Non-stuffy, hm? In that case, I do not suppose your social circle would happen to have room in it for a _lowly peasant_ , would it? After all, peasantry is certainly the opposite of nobility,” he says, and he feels his skin tingle when McJones’s smile widens right away.

“I think that could be arranged, yes,” McJones answers, matching Dean’s teasing tone. And then, he pauses for a flicker, his scarlet-stained mouth caught open mid-thought. “…An inn, you said?”

Dean’s heart misses a beat, and when it hits again an instant later, adrenaline rushes through his veins in a hot, twisting surge.

“Yes.” He sounds far more measured than he feels. “A nicer inn than most, in fact. We could even request lodging with two separate beds—i-if you would prefer.” Reflexively, Dean rubs his jaw, and he prays that it isn’t obvious that he very much hopes McJones does _not_ prefer.

“And this innkeeper you speak of will not question why an acquaintance of his has suddenly turned up this late at night, absolutely covered in blood and accompanied by the heir to the Viscount?”

And there go McJones’s eyebrows again, lifting up in that sharply pointed way that Dean adores.

“If we tip him well, I assure you he won’t think twice of it.”

McJones hesitates again, and Dean can almost see him mulling it over, see the thoughts and fragments of information turning the gears of his mind bit by bit by bit. Watching him, Dean feels suspended in the air, as if the ground has completely evaporated beneath him. After a few moments, McJones’s shoulders lower in a sigh, and his eyes return to Dean.

“You know, come to think of it, I cannot recall the last time I visited an inn,” he says slowly. “I’m supposed to think them beneath me, but I do quite enjoy the atmosphere, actually. The music, the ale, other such things. Like tonight’s ball, but without any of the façade or social expectation.” He swallows, the muscles in his neck shifting marginally, and licks his lips. “I suppose…it couldn’t hurt to get away for a little while.”

And Dean feels himself break into a brilliant grin. “Good. I believe so too.”

With that, not wanting to let any more time slip through their fingers, he turns and starts off towards the small door in the corner, and he senses McJones trailing a few steps behind him. The door sticks when he tries to push on it, but he throws his shoulder into it with all his strength, and it thankfully loosens and comes shuddering open with a whine, revealing a narrow, dark, dingy staircase spiraling steeply downwards into the back wall of the castle. They stand together, side by side, just looking off into the depths for a handful of silent seconds.

“…Are you absolutely sure there will not be any servants in our path?” McJones asks, his voice echoing off the stone staircase walls.

“Most probably,” Dean says. He gives McJones a pointed half-glare in offense, although there is only mirth behind it. “I told you I know what I'm doing, Stewart. I thought you said that you trusted me.”

“I _do_ trust you.”

McJones looks at him. He looks back at McJones. Truly, they are a sight, is what they are. Dean with his front swathed with the Earl of Azmarin’s blood, and McJones with his bag overflowing with the Earl’s most prized possessions. A peasant and a noble. A murderer and a thief. Two lives, two paths that collided by utter happenstance. Dean isn’t exactly much of a poet, but he supposes there is something poetically beautiful in that. Overlooking all of the political crimes and spilt blood, of course.

Breaking from his introspection, he realizes that McJones is still staring up at him. His eyes are shadowed beneath his half-lowered lids, but they’re just as striking as always. Those beautiful green irises of his wrap around Dean’s soul once more, bewitching him, entrancing him. And, in an abrupt flash of boldness, the millionth-and-second one he has experienced tonight, Dean reaches out and settles his hand on McJones’s lower back.

McJones stiffens slightly. He blinks once, twice, thrice. But all the same, he doesn’t make any motion to pull back or push Dean away. Surprised, but very clearly not displeased. More than allowing Dean to get away with it, just as he has allowed Dean to get away with everything else tonight.

Then, Dean angles his head towards the staircase.

“Shall we?” he says, his voice bright and brimming with all the possibility of what’s to come. McJones nods in reply, no words, but with a smile that lights up his entire face. And Dean realizes, after a moment, that he himself is beaming as well. Gently, he presses his fingers into the small of McJones’s back, guiding him forward.

They step onto the staircase and shut the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Or, Dean murders a man, and McJones robs him blind, and then they flee into the sunset together. Sorry, Jeff.
> 
> In case you haven't figured it out by now, the title of this story is a play on the Irish phrase _buaidh nó bás_ that appears on Jeff’s coat of arms; instead of "victory or death," it means "victory _and_ death."
> 
> Another fun fact is that this story was sort of inspired—in an atmospheric sense, not a lyrics-specific sense—by the song “Sonnenreigen” by Faun. The lyrics don't have much to do with this story, but just the general feeling that I got while listening to it made the first sprouts of this plot pop into my brain. 
> 
> And I guess a third fun fact is that I did so much research into British nobility for this. It’s _so_ complicated. There’s viscounts & earls & barons & baronets (those last two are totally different things by the way!) & a million other titles. And different ways of addressing every single one. ~~also please ignore the fact that it is definitely supposed to be spelled The Right _Honourable_ the Viscount with the U in there. sorry british people I did you injustice :pensive:~~
> 
> Anyway, if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading, & I sincerely hoped you enjoyed it! I'll be back in the future with something new!


End file.
